


An Enchanted Gift

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Series: Anti-Christmas Zine 2020 [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Lovers, M/M, Post-Canon, Romance, Sexual Content, enchanted alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:34:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28297593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: Anathema gives Aziraphale and Crowley a special gift - a homemade bottle of a holiday drink with some very peculiar side effects.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Anti-Christmas Zine 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2072664
Comments: 8
Kudos: 93
Collections: AntiChrist-mas Zine Collection





	An Enchanted Gift

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the wonderful Anti-Christmas Zine 2020 :)

Crowley’s flat is positively a picture, fit for printing on a Christmas card.

Fire roaring on the hearth.

Garland and tinsel draped over anything that doesn’t move.

Fairy lights brightening the dark corners, wound around the rubber tree and the Chinese Evergreen, weeding through the leaves of the dieffenbachia.

A host of red velvet, gold taffeta, and white satin ribbon hanging from the ceiling till no white marble can be seen.

And at the center of it all, a tree - an honest-to-Satan floor-to-ceiling pine that Crowley had tromped into the forest and tore out of the ground himself with his own two hands. An ax would have been simpler. Heck, he could have snapped the thing back to his flat, trimmed and mounted, ready for decorating. But his method seemed so much more festive considering he’d been bellowing holiday carols the entire time.

He let angel take the lead decorating. Aziraphale had a merry time covering the thing in frosted globes, glass candy canes (since the real ones didn’t last long enough to hang), gingerbread men (only slightly nibbled), reindeer, clove oranges, crocheted white-lace snowflakes, and other ornaments of the like, purchased from artisans all around London. 

Crowley had gone so far as to include a manger scene for the benefit of his angel-in-residence. However, instead of hanging the Archangel Gabriel using the provided hook, he hung him over the birthplace of the Lord by a noose. Aziraphale giggled when he saw it but recommended fixing it - to ward off bad karma or something along those lines. Not wanting to sully his spirits listening to a lecture about tempting fate (which is all Crowley does), Crowley remedied it.

He replaced Gabriel with a vintage Troll doll key chain Pepper accidentally forgot at Aziraphale’s bookshop.

“There! Top notch replacement, if I do say so meself! Looks just like ‘im!” Crowley declared, gesturing to the absurd trinket with its vibrant purple hair.

“And which part, might I ask, looks _just like him_?” Aziraphale had asked.

“The head! It’s _huge_!”

Demons aren’t much for celebrating. But this year, with everything Crowley had to be grateful for, he honestly couldn’t help himself. At its root, Christmas is about love.

Family.

Birth.

A chance to shed the skin of past sins and start anew.

This year, Crowley couldn’t see letting Christmas pass unacknowledged.

“You know, I may not be a connoisseur of holiday shindigs,” Crowley says, leaning back on the floor and gazing up at the spectacle that is their cheerfully burdened tree, “but I would say tonight has come pretty close to perfect. Wouldn’t you?” He rolls onto his hip, beaming at Aziraphale seated not too far from him, a loopy grin nudging his mouth up at the corners.

“Indeed.” Aziraphale lifts his bottle of Burgundy, prepared to propose a toast. It comes up off the floor far too quickly, an indicator the thing has been drained dry.

“Looks like we finished that one.” Crowley looks left and right in search of another, but doesn’t see one. “Augh! Don’t tell me we went through them all! I’m sure I had another three at least!”

“Don’t fret, my dear,” Aziraphale says. “I may have just the thing.” He crawls over to the tree on hands and knees and rummages underneath. A second later he crawls back out, accompanied by a rustic-looking green glass bottle and a triumphant little, _‘A-ha!’_ “This comes courtesy of dear, sweet Anathema.” He presents the bottle to his demon for approval. “She said she made it with _love_.”

“Really?” Crowley snorts while Aziraphale uncorks the bottle. “And what ingredient is that then? Wolfsbane? Mandrake root?”

“Honey, I think.” Aziraphale gives the mouth of the bottle a sniff. “Maybe blackberries?”

“The important question is - is it alcohol?”

Aziraphale brings the bottle to his lips and knocks back a gulp, coughing at the finish. “That it is.”

“Give it here then. I’d like to partake of some _love_ , too.” Crowley indulges, tilting his head back and taking a huge swig. He smacks his tongue, then licks his lips, shivering when a wave of heat enters his bloodstream and works its way down his spine. “Wow. That’s tasty.”

“Isn’t it? If being a witch doesn’t work out for her, she should definitely take up a career distilling.”

“Love, you say?” Crowley peers into the bottle, pondering the ingredients as the drink settles onto his taste buds. “Do you think that’s something she orders by the pound, or gathers under the full moon?”

“To be honest, I have no idea---oof!” Aziraphale sways, planting a hand flat on the floor and locking his elbow to keep from toppling over.

“You alright, angel?” Crowley snickers. “Having a bit of trouble holding your drink?” His forehead wrinkles with concern when Aziraphale doesn’t recover right away. “That’s not normally like you---”

Crowley’s teasing cuts off when Aziraphale’s mouth crashes into his - hot, demanding, tasting of mulling spices, apples, sour plum, and brandy. It takes Crowley a moment to realize Aziraphale is kissing him.

Then another for him to start kissing back.

This isn’t just any kiss. It’s the kiss he’s been longing for. The kiss he’d feel on his lips every time Aziraphale looked his way and smiled. It’s the kiss he thought about the century he slept. And even though there have been many kisses between them, Crowley ranks this as the first.

Because it’s the kiss of dreams.

Aziraphale inhales sharply and backs away. “Oh! Oh, I’m sorry, my dear! I don’t know what came over me!”

Crowley looks him over curiously, waiting for an explanation, but Aziraphale doesn’t seem to have one. Aziraphale loves kissing, but he doesn’t go about it this way - doesn’t rush in, doesn’t take what he hasn’t asked for. “Turn about’s fair play, I’d wager.”

“What do you …?”

Without another word, Crowley sneaks a hand behind Aziraphale’s head and kisses him back.

Another kiss follows. Then another. With each one, the room becomes inhospitable - too warm, too stuffy, too difficult to stay in wearing all their blasted clothes! Aziraphale tries to relieve the pressure at his neck, but he can’t seem to manage his buttons, so Crowley helps him undo those. Likewise Crowley’s zipper becomes uncooperative, so Aziraphale tasks himself with unzipping it. Article by article they tear through until the two become too frustrated to care about the inevitable paperwork and snap off the rest.

Crowley kneels behind his angel, completely naked, kissing every spot he can get his lips on. And _God_ , how it tingles! No. How it _burns_ \- each touch of his lips to Aziraphale’s flesh sending surges of razor sharp and magma hot straight from Crowley’s mouth to his groin.

And he wants more.

He wants it everywhere.

He wants it scalding his throat, searing his lungs, consuming him from the inside out. Let it dissolve him into ashes that blow away on the wind, let him die in an orgasm of violence and fire and angelic light.

As long as it comes with Aziraphale.

What a way to go.

“I have to have you, angel,” he moans. “ _Now_. Right now.”

“Are you … are you sure? We’ve always said that we wouldn’t allow alcohol to make us amorous.”

“I don’t feel drunk. Do you?”

Aziraphale focuses inward, taking stock of his corporation. “No,” he says, surprised considering the bottles of wine they’d polished off before they started in on Anathema’s gift. “I don’t. Not at all.” Aziraphale locates an empty bottle and concentrates, tries to push the alcohol of the night from his system, but nothing appears. Not a single drop. “Far from it, it would seem.”

“That’s right. We’re not drunk. We’re completely in our right minds.”

“I wouldn’t say …”

“I want this, angel!” Crowley pleads with a sense of urgency. “Don’t you?”

“Yes, I do. More than ever,” Aziraphale admits.

“What do you want me to do?” Crowley whispers, voice husky with a lust he has inspired in others but has never once felt himself. “Tell me.”

“Make love to me?”

“ _How_?”

Aziraphale peeks over his shoulder, grinning at his demon chomping at the bit. “You seem to be in the perfect position. I suggest you start there.”

Aziraphale expects Crowley to mock his snark, but he doesn’t, diving immediately back into the task of kissing across Aziraphale’s shoulders, lingering over the joint where his wings would connect if he let them out. Crowley swirls over it with his tongue, painting overlapping circles, and Aziraphale sees stars. They’ve made love in this position before, and Crowley has kissed every inch of his back, but he’s never spent so much time on this particular area.

The decadence of this sensation should be _criminal_.

Aziraphale feels Crowley’s hands on his body everywhere at once - massaging his muscles, fondling his cock, scissoring him open. Could Crowley be using magic to pleasure him? That’s not something they’ve ever done before due to the implications of Hell finding out. But seeing as Hell is no longer a concern, that puts every card at their disposal.

And thank God because _this_ they need to do again!

“Aziraphale,” Crowley utters as he enters him, his angel’s name like sugar in his bitter mouth, and _fuck_!

There it is.

When he enters him completely.

The fire.

Inside his angel.

And Crowley has become its fuel.

“Oh, Crowley …” Aziraphale shifts his weight onto his palms and leans forward, raising his rear in the air. “Oh, yes. Just like that, my dear …”

“Like this, angel?” Crowley pulls back, then thrusts hard - harder than he would normally, sending Aziraphale swiftly to the verge. With Aziraphale’s grunts of ecstasy mirroring the rhythm of Crowley’s hips, Crowley knows that regardless of anything, _this_ he cannot stop.

It would be unforgivable.

“Yes!” Aziraphale whimpers, bracing against the marble floor with knuckles white. “Yes! Crowley, yes!”

“Yes …” Crowley echoes beneath his breath, a lightness settling inside his mind, siphoning his ability to think. He’s done too much thinking already. Now is not the time for thinking. Now is the time for serving. The time for _feeling_. And what he feels is soft beneath his hands, tight around his cock, a quest for satisfaction, for completion, wrapped in a braided rope of love, love, and more love. So much love it fills his flat from corner to ceiling, leaves its mark on the walls and on the doors.

And on the marble beneath them when Aziraphale, spiraling out of control, comes unannounced on Crowley’s living room floor.

“Oh,” he squeaks with embarrassment though he knows Crowley would say he shouldn’t be. “I apologize, my love, but I seem to have sullied your floor.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” Crowley says, snapping his fingers and cleaning the mess as he shudders through his own orgasm, which had snuck up inside him and granted him release less like an accomplishment and more like a reward for what he had done for his angel.

“Well,” Aziraphale manages even though he’s breathless, which isn’t a bother for him. “That was … interesting.”

“Just interesting?”

Aziraphale blushes. “More than interesting. But I would hate to think that was all because of the drink.”

“I wouldn’t say it was. I think the brew just sort of lowered out inhibitions. Enhanced the experience.”

“Do you think that was meant to happen? I find it difficult to believe that Anathema of all people gave us some sort of love potion as a Christmas present.”

“Not sure. Could be a side-effect of being witch made. Probably affects us more because we’re occult.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue Crowley’s word usage. “Or … what if it’s something worse?”

“Worse?” Crowley arches an eyebrow. “What worse?”

“What if it did what it was meant to, but it was supposed to be a present for her young gentleman?”

“Ugh! Aziraphale! Don’t!” Crowley groans, wrapping his arms around his angel and holding him tight. “You’re going to put me off!”

“Sorry,” Aziraphale chuckles, hugging Crowley’s arms about his waist. Locked in the cozy cocoon of Crowley’s embrace, a thought pricks Aziraphale’s brain.

There is a secret third possibility.

A week or two ago, Aziraphale went to Tracy Shadwell’s place for tea and rum cake. While he was there, he’d confided in both Tracy and Anathema that as much as he loved his sex life with his husband, physical intimacy had become somewhat of a chore. Not because he didn’t love it, which he did, but because Crowley seemed stuck on every love making session between them being more romantic than the last. First came the champagne, then the candlelight ( _so_ much candlelight …), massages with complicated names, and, as of late, dramatic musical choices. It’s nice, the care Crowley puts into being his lover, but it also puts a tremendous amount of pressure on Aziraphale to keep up appearances.

Makes the whole ordeal feel like a performance.

Some nights, by the time they get to the good stuff, Aziraphale is ready to hit the hay. Seeing as he despises sleep, that’s awfully telling.

Aziraphale has come to the conclusion that, often times, he’s just … how did the youths say it … _down to fuck._

So this drink may have done exactly what it was meant to, and he and Crowley may have rightfully been its intended targets.

But Aziraphale isn’t about to tell Crowley that.

“What should we do now? Should we lock it away or …?”

“Seems to me there’s only one thing we _can_ do …” Crowley looks the bottle over, gauging the level of the liquid still inside. He grins, the firelight flickering in his eyes, making him look more wicked than Aziraphale has seen him in decades.

And he takes a hefty swallow.


End file.
